


Seeing and Observing

by DarkPhoenix713



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221 b Baker Street, AU Post COS, Assault, Child Abuse, Deductions, Fluff, Inner monologuing, Language, light slash, ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPhoenix713/pseuds/DarkPhoenix713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry returns to Privet Drive after his second year, but his magic is acting up and getting him into trouble. The Dursleys are acting far worse than usual, and it all comes to a head. He flees to muggle London where he is taken care of by a dog, a doctor, and a quirky detective. SB/JW possible other pairings. Light slash. Fluffy feelings. Magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back in Little Whinging

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo!!
> 
> This work here is one of my favourites - I love Harry Potter and Sherlock crossovers! I can't always find good ones, but when I do they are absolute gems! I hope this measures up!
> 
> I've been writing this on another site, but thought I'd start updating it to my collection here. So if you recognize it, I'm not stealing. From myself. Promise.
> 
> Disclaimers: I don't own any of the stuff owned by J.K. Rowling, and I own nothing to do with the works of the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.
> 
> Warnings: Light slash faaar into the future, hitting, kicking, swearing, brief moment of creepy pedo bastard (no rape! no non-con!) Sherlock deducing the crap out of everyone, Sirius Black in all his awesomeness.... body parts in the kitchen...
> 
> Please enjoy!

Chapter 1

Harry stood in the hazy, lamp-lit street, shivering. His white-knuckled fingers clenched around Hedwig's empty cage, while he seriously contemplated digging his cloak out of his trunk. He weighed the two evils in his mind: looking like a freak in Muggle London at one in the morning, or freezing to death in the unseasonably chill night air. Sighing, he dragged his trunk a little further onto an empty street, before giving in to exhaustion. He dug out his cloak, and sat on his trunk, wand clenched in his fist. His head drooped morosely; he was cold, hungry, alone, on the run from the Ministry, and thirteen years old. As he slipped into a wary daze, he wondered, 'how did it come to this?'

-One Week Earlier-

Harry left platform 9 3/4 with a growing sense of dread. The train ride had not been easy – trying to keep up with the celebratory mood in the compartment the Weasley brothers had commandeered for their sister was difficult. While he was glad Ginny was alive, his near-death in the chamber and his probable death awaiting him at his 'home' loomed over him. Luckily, the Weasley twins and Ron were boisterous enough, exclaiming over Percy's un-petrified girlfriend while Hermione and Ginny giggled.

Harry left King's Cross station and immediately spotted his vast, multi-hued uncle. Without a word, he followed him to the car, and loaded his trunk in the boot without any assistance, not that he expected any. He quietly slipped into the backseat, with a murmured “thank you, sir” to his glowering uncle. He saw Hermione pass in front of their parking spot, but he made no motion. Hew was no longer at Hogwarts, he was officially 'at the Dursley's', and and the Dursley's, Harry Potter had no friends.

As they approached Little Whinging after a tensely silent ride, Vernon Dursley spoke. “Marge is coming tomorrow. You shall not reveal your ... freakishness to her. If I even get a hint of something funny, it's on your head. You've already got that ruddy window to pay for.”

Harry winced. He had hoped Vernon had forgotten his summer escape to the Weasley's. Evidently, he hadn't.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, cringing. His magic had been slightly volatile since the chamber – he wasn't sure why, but he was willing to pin it on the cocktail of basilisk venom and phoenix tears he had floating around in his blood. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone at Hogwarts, as he was slightly resentful to the teachers for their attitudes. His near-death experience had gotten him thinking about how his life had been at school. The teachers had let an unknown monster petrify the students! And they could have died, Ginny almost died, no thanks to them. No, it had taken second years to figure it out – Hermione to do the research to discover what the monster was, and Harry to go down and kill it. Admittedly, they had access to a few more clues than the staff did, mainly the voice in the walls and Tom Riddle's diary, but still, the staff were fully trained magical professionals. In Harry's eyes, they hadn't done their jobs.

The magical world seemed very off to Harry. Not that he didn't love it – it was a welcome escape from his horrible relatives. However, he highly doubted he should even be with said relatives. Didn't the magical world have orphanages? It should have an equivalent to child services at the very least – that way children like Harry and Tom Riddle wouldn't be raised in such negative environments. Harry frowned, thinking back to his muggle school days. They had been horrible, but the guardians were much more involved in the lives of their children. His aunt had gotten called for him being found on the roof, so surely the school had notified the parents of the petrified children? He then remembered that they were muggleborn, but that shouldn't make a difference, in his opinion. The parents had a right to know if their child was missing classes due to almost being killed by a giant snake. 

Then there was the matter of Ginny. Harry wasn't sure how it worked in the other houses, but McGonagall wasn't the best head of house. He didn't remember her ever meeting with the Gryffindors, other than the time a few weeks ago when she had stepped into the common room to announce Ginny's disappearance. No, she usually delegated to her prefects to care for the students. Harry figured that they had arsed that job up pretty well, especially Percy. As Head Boy and older brother of Ginny, shouldn't he have been able to tell if she had started acting differently? 

That wasn't even taking his first year into account. How in the world had Quirrell managed to be hired with bloody Voldemort sticking out the back of his head? And hiding a highly coveted and dangerous magical object in a school full of children just wasn't on in Harry's opinion. Sure, he had gone after it, but that was only because no one would take him seriously and listen when he said it was in danger. No, it was all “it's perfectly safe, Potter, now go play outside.” The 'perfectly safe' part came into question when three first-years were able to beat all of the enchantments guarding the stone. Looking back, it seemed terribly contrived to Harry. He was a naturally suspicious child – you don't grow up with the Dursley's without developing a finely tuned skepticism on human nature. He knew everyone saw him as some sort of celebrity, and he thought is was the most idiotic thing ever. It was all very frustrating, and Harry let out an inaudible sigh as they pulled into the driveway at Number 4 Privet Drive.

As soon as Harry walked in the door, Aunt Petunia appeared, glaring at him. She pointed imperiously at the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry suffered a moment of heart-stopping panic before she snapped, “all that junk goes in there. Now. Duddy grew again so there are some clothes for you upstairs. And send that creature away – it will upset the dog.” She said this all with a scowl twisting her thin face, and Harry grimaced in return, dragging his trunk down the hallway. No wand, no books – nothing this summer except what he could scrounge up. Sighing, he turned to his Aunt as she closed and locked the door, and said, “I'll send her away, but I'll need to write a note so they know to keep her there.”

Aunt Petunia pursed her lips as she tried to find something amiss with his reasoning, but eventually she turned and walked briskly into the kitchen. She opened a drawer and took out a single post-it note and a cheap ballpoint pen, and gave them both to Harry. He quickly wrote on the limited space:

Ron, please take care of Hedwig for -

Harry hesitated and glanced up at Aunt Petunia through his fringe.

“How long ...?”

“Two weeks,” she snapped, and he nodded hurriedly, trying to hide a wince as he quickly scrawled the rest of the note.

two weeks. No letters during that time, tell Hermione sorry. Uncle's sister is visiting. - Harry

Aunt Petunia glanced at the note, sniffed and handed him a list of chores.

“You can send it tonight when it wont be seen. Marge is arriving tomorrow, so these must be done by then.” She pointed at the rather lengthy list.

Harry nodded and climbed the stairs with Hedwig's cage in one hand and the list in the other. Harry reflected that if any of his schoolmates could see him now, they would be completely shocked. But Harry had learned over the course of his life that confrontation was a very bad idea when it came to any of the Dursleys. So it was that Harry meekly accepted what came to him, and rolled up his figurative sleeves, preparing himself for his work. He knew he would not eat until it was done.

 

0000ooooo00000

 

Aunt Marge's Visit was just as horrible as Harry had anticipated. She had steamrollered her way into the house, and flung her bags at him and herself at Dudley. Privately, Harry thought he had gotten the better of the two, even if Dudley came away with twenty pounds while he most likely had a bruised rib. Marge had brought Ripper, her prize bulldog with her, and he glared balefully at Harry as he dragged the luggage up the stairs. 

He lagged in descending to join the misshapen blobs he called his relatives, but finally he was called in to serve the food. Aunt Marge had always delighted in tearing him down, especially by comparing him to Dudley. Why she thought this may demoralize him, Harry never knew. He personally thought it was an absolute Godsend that he was so very dissimilar to his whale of a cousin. Still, the years of aggravation got a bit depressing after a while, what with the whacks from her cane, the occasional slap for impertinence, the digs at his parents, and her sicking her stupid dogs on him. Oddly enough, Ripper had approached Harry, his growls making his blubbery flesh vibrate before he snuffled through his scrunched up nose. If a dog's eyes could pop, Rippers most certainly tried to do so – he actually whimpered, and stayed away from Harry from then on.

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially because horses reminded him of Aunt Petunia and he tried to stay as far as possible from her – Harry just picked at the tiny portion of the meal he had been dished out. He wanted to leave the table as soon as possible, but he knew that getting up to early would only draw Marge's attention to him. So he sat and stoically ate his meager fare, while the three born Dursley's shoveled piles of food into their quivering maws, and Aunt Petunia emulated some sort of fidgety bird, pecking and shredding at her food.

After bellowing for most of the meal about dogs, escaped convicts, and the impressive and remarkable attributes of her beloved 'neffy-poo', Marge rounded on Harry. Squinting at him with maliciously beady eyes, she asked, “So, Vernon, where did you say the boy was going? He's still got that mean, runty look about him.”

“St. Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal boys,” Vernon grunted. “Specifically for hopeless cases like this one,” he pointed a meaty finger at Harry, not looking at him directly.

“Hmph!” snorted Aunt Marge, ruffling her moustache with the strength of her exhalation. “About time, Vernon! You've put up with the whelp for far too long – he's lucky you didn't just stick him in an orphanage. That's what I would have done.” She swelled impressively, giving Harry a scathing glare.

Harry sat and stewed in silent indignation. He was right there. Sure, the Dursley's generally ignored him, but they didn't do it in such a taunting manner! He reflected on the complete lack of sense that last thought made, and decided he'd have much rather gone to an orphanage. At least there you were given regular meals, and fairly equal treatment ... and a chance at a real family. One that wouldn't see a child as a burden.

Not allowing these thoughts to show on his face, Harry just grimaced a smile and began clearing the dishes at Aunt Petunia's nod. He was scraping the carnage that was their meal into the trash – God forbid Petunia ever serve something as plebeian as leftovers – when Aunt Marge began to turn her complaints to drunks. Brandishing her tumbler of brandy, she shouted, “a disgrace to our society! No good, homeless wastrels, using alcohol to cover their ina – adequa – inade – problems!”

Harry rolled his eyes, and focused on washing the dishes. If he got them done soon, he could leave before Marge noticed him again. She usually could rant about drunks and the like for a solid ten minutes. What was that word Hermione used? It sounded like rhino. No, hippo! A hypocrite! Yes, that's what Aunt Marge was. Harry was sure the 60% of fluid that made up her body was entirely alcohol. As he dried off the last of the dishes, he heard Aunt Marge really getting into it, and decided to listen to gauge when would be the most opportune time to disappear.

“That boy's parents are another thing!” Aunt Marge was shouting. Harry looked swiftly at his relatives, who glanced with shifty eyes towards him. “Those excuses for humans are the reason you're stuck with the boy in the first place, Petunia.” Aunt Marge continued, “I don't mean to judge, but your sister, well, she gets pregnant after school and what do you think will happen? Your family is lucky the man married her, at least salvaged your poor name! Too bad they were drunks and ingrate though – landed the boy right on your doorstep after they killed themselves.” Nodding impressively, Marge took a deep gulp of her recently re-filled brandy.

Harry was white with rage. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, but now, knowing that his parents had been magical, had fought Voldemort, had been good, he couldn't stand it. He could see his uncle nodding piously, and his aunt looking nervous but remaining silent. This was her sister Marge was talking about! Didn't she care at all? Remembering what Aunt Petunia had said in the shack that night on his birthday, Harry realized she truly didn't. Aunt Petunia, his only family, hated his mother and hated him. All because they had magic.

Fury filled Harry, and the dish he had in his hand developed a sudden, hairline crack. Looking down in a panic, he realized that his magic was reacting to his anger, and seeping out of him. With a fearful glance to his uncle, who thankfully hadn't noticed, he took a calming breath. He had already received a warning from the Ministry last year, thanks to Dobby, and had no desire to be on the wrong side of the law. Quickly putting the dish away, he slunk out of the kitchen on silent feet, collapsing on the bed when he got to his room.

Harry took off his glasses and pressed his hands against his eyes. He had not cried since he was very young; he could not cry now. He had no right to cry – he wasn't even hurt! Words should not have this effect on him. Hadn't he survived the hateful whispers all through this year? As if a second year could be the Heir of Slytherin! Ginny didn't really count as a first year because she was being possessed by a 16-year-old Tom Riddle. Harry had also endured the cold shoulders and disappointed glares towards the end of his first year when he had lost all those points for Gryffindor. Even his Quidditch team had turned on him then, not even deigning to give address him by name. But he was used to being ignored, so he could take it. He had even endured Snape's endless taunts – Malfoy's didn't count because they were stupid. He had not gotten this worked up when he was told his father was arrogant, or that he, Harry, was stupid and reckless. Snape's opinion didn't matter to him, and neither did Aunt Marge's!

Then why this ache in his chest? He knew now that his parents were not irresponsible drunks. But his whole life he had been told that they were young, they didn't want him, and that it was their own stupidity that got them killed. Harry knew that wasn't true. Lily and James Potter had fought Voldemort! They were his heroes! They had saved his life. And therein lay the root of the problem. While Harry knew that his parents loved him, the knowledge that they had died protecting him gave him no feelings of warmth. His self-esteem, already decimated by years with the Dursleys, had almost been crushed on gaining that knowledge. He was nothing special; why did two people so in love, such a perfect couple according to everyone, give everything up for him? It didn't make sense; he was nobody, nothing, a freak. 

Harry shook his head. That wasn't true – he was a wizard! He could do magic, and he had friends. He was Harry Potter, he was – he was somebody. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He 'defeated' Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Wizard since Grindlewald. He was a celebrity, he was rich, he was famous. And he hated it.

Harry wasn't sure which title he hated more – Freak, or the Boy-Who-Lived. Each was a label that had huge expectations attached to it. It gave him no room to be Harry. And he knew, that if his parents were still alive, if they loved him like everyone said they had, he could have been Harry. He could have had nicknames and scoldings and stories and hugs. Instead he got to go between rabid adulation and disgusted indifference.

Sighing, Harry rolled over. He hadn't gotten this upset in a long time. Perhaps it was because Hedwig was gone, perhaps it was because he hadn't seen Marge since before Hogwarts. In any case, he would have to do his best to ignore Aunt Marge. He may not be able to control his emotions – and that would lead to losing control of his magic.


	2. Snap Goes .... Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry loses control, and so does Vernon. Harry goes on the run, planning on leaving Surrey far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Another chapter! Bit short - the next few ones sill be. Sorry.
> 
> Disclamers: See first chapter for all of them, but basically I own nothing recognizable
> 
> Warnings: Violence, language
> 
> Please enjoy the chapter, as far as you can with the material being what it is...

Chapter 2

Looking back on that week, Harry didn't really know how he didn't lose his temper earlier. He had tried to adopt a policy of avoidance, but Marge delighted in comparing him to Dudley and flaunting her gifts in his face. This form of taunting had stopped stinging some years ago; he no longer was filled with with the morose jealousy that had fueled his neglected childhood. Forced to be in the company of the Dursleys, Harry tried to turn their techniques around on them, and just ignore them. This gave his face a very dull, slack look, and would have had Aunt Marge questioning his mental faculties if she had possessed the vocabulary to do so. In any case, she thought that he was extremely stupid, and praised Dudley's intelligence and general superiority any chance she could. She was, Harry reflected, even more deluded than Vernon and Petunia were about their son. How this was even possible Harry couldn't tell, but he supposed that, as a practitioner of magic, he shouldn't really be questioning impossibilities.

Harry got through the week by cooking very large and intricate meals for his relatives with very little assistance from Aunt Petunia. She was more of a supervisor, and even then she wasn't very attentive; she was generally absorbed in one of her gossip magazines, the ones she kept under her home and garden subscriptions. She was avidly following the story of some poor celebrity featured on the cover, but would occasionally glare over at Harry and try to find something wrong with his preparation. Harry was actually very good at cooking; he felt that he would be rather good at Potions if it weren't for Snape and Malfoy. And if he knew what reacted with what, to create different results. He was used to using his imagination when cooking, as he wasn't really permitted to taste his creations. However, potions just ended up looking like goop and bits of plant to him; Snape just wrote the instructions on the board and said 'go'. At least Aunt Petunia's recipe books had pictures and such.

Harry glanced over as Aunt Petunia let out a snort of derision. He knew it wasn't him; he had made every part of the roast chicken with potato salad correctly so far. No Aunt Petunia was looking scathingly at her gossip rag, muttering about criminals and unsavoury persons. Feeling bad for whoever was under his aunt's beady eye, Harry just continued with his preparations, knowing better than to ask. 'Don't ask questions' was still the one of the pillars by which he lived his life at the Dursleys. However, he was allowed to – or, he hadn't been told not to – observe, so when Aunt Petunia flipped the page with a more agitated motion than usual, he caught a glimpse of a thoroughly unkept and deranged looking man. Not wanting to look too interested, Harry turned back to the counter, and his careful preparations. This was the half-way mark, he only had one more week of Aunt Marge, then it was back to his studied non-existence. He couldn't wait.

That evening Uncle Vernon barreled through the door brandishing a newspaper. He bellowed into the living room, where both Aunt Marge and Dudley were watching television, “Have you seen the news? Government's let a madman loose on us!”

Aunt Petunia rushed in from the dining room, simpering “Oh yes, darling, it was all over – there's a hotline to call if anyone sees him!” Aunt Petunia practically gushed that last bit, looking around as if she would spot the man and be able to call the hotline.

“News?” barked Aunt Marge, “What would a boy like Dudders want to watch the news for?”

Dudley ignored the adults, his eyes fixed on the screen. Harry was setting the table, but he heard Uncle Vernon expand on his knowledge of the 'madman'.

“Says here 'mass murderer Sirius Black has escaped from a secure facility.' Says he's armed, and will probably go around killing all us decent folk. 'Course he will, look at the state of him!” Vernon came in with the newspaper, followed by his wife and waddling sister, “look at his hair!”

Harry, finished with laying out dinner, glanced at the front page. A horribly gaunt man with long, scraggly black hair glared out from the black and white photograph. This was a muggle picture, so the subject didn't move, but Harry felt that the convict's eyes were glittering very sinisterly. Dudley somehow made it through the doorway, and the family, and Harry, sat down to eat.

“Did they mention where the man escaped from, Vernon?” Marge asked as she tore into Harry's beautiful, perfectly golden chicken.

Uncle Vernon grunted, “No. Not a mention – could be anywhere. He could be walking down the street as we speak!”

Aunt Petunia gasped, and started craning her neck towards the window. Aunt Marge grumbled about the government and the police force and the whole penal system. Harry rolled his eyes and tried to eat as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself; he just wanted to clear the dishes and go upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was nodding along with his sister's points. “Exactly!” he roared. “When will they learn that hanging's the only way to deal with these people?”

“Humph!” Aunt Marge made a vaguely affirmative noise. Harry supposed it meant yes, however he wasn't well versed in the special language of grunts and rumbles that he suspected formed the majority of a Dursley's vocabulary. “Vernon, that's what this country doesn't get! The death penalty is the only real solution – none of this reform and correction business,” she sneered at Harry. “If it's a bad egg, its a bad egg and it needs to go before it stinks up the rest.”

Harry was caught between being impressed at Marge's almost certain grasp of an extended metaphor, and rolling his eyes at yet another hint that he should just drop dead. He wondered when he had become so blase on hearing other people wished him dead. He supposed that finding out a Dark Lord wanted to kill you really made the death threats made by fat relatives pale in comparison. 

“It's like I said, Petunia,” Marge continued. “Blood will out. You get tramps like that Potter snatching up young, impressionable girls like your sister and see what you get? Alcoholics, the both of them, not even caring enough to keep themselves alive for their child. Selfish, ill-bred wastrels. Mighty irresponsible, bringing the boy into the world if they didn't even want to stick around to raise it properly! They have the nerve to leave it to you, their decent, hard-working relatives! And now you're stuck with this product of bad breeding – it's in the blood Petunia, why, if it were a dog, I would have drowned the pup as soon as I learned the bitch was -” 

Harry couldn't see; his ears were ringing and a white haze had settled over his vision. Distantly, he heard a gruff voice shout 'boy!' and he shook his head, turning towards the purple face of his 'aunt'. She was now ranting that it was obviously Harry's parents' fault that he was so defective; she had heard about how alcohol and drugs affected children in the womb. As she swelled to elaborate her point, Harry hissed at her in his absolute fury. Her eyes widened slightly, and she continued to swell. And she didn't stop – her eyes bugged out and her chest expanded, popping the tawdry buttons on her food-smeared blouse. Her arms slowly raised away from her sides, too large to fall naturally, and her hands expanded as if someone were blowing into a rubber glove. Aunt Marge was attempting to look wildly around while this happened, however her neck and shoulders had blown up to the extent that she could not move at all. She settled for rolling her eyes madly in her her now puce-coloured face. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia gaped while this was happening, before Aunt Petunia shrieked and started dragging Dudley from the room, while Vernon rounded on Harry.

“PUT HER RIGHT! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER? FIX HER NOW, FREAK!!” Vernon screamed at him. Harry was breathing heavily, and feeling a little lightheaded. He looked dizzily into his uncle's furious face, and reeled backwards as a meaty fist collided into the side of his head. Harry fell towards the wall, utterly confused. Had he performed accidental magic? Where had that weird hiss come from? He had felt a sudden outflow of energy when he had lashed out at his Aunt – Harry's musings were interrupted by a punch to his gut. Uncle Vernon drew back his fist again and roared at him, “FREAK IF YOU DON'T FIX HER THIS INSTANT YOU'RE IN FOR THE BEATING OF YOUR LIFE!”

Alarmed, Harry's eyes darted towards his uncle's face. It was splotchy and apoplectic with rage. He realized that he had to get away, get somewhere safe, and he made a sudden dash for the door, stumbling in his inexplicable exhaustion. Marge was now rolling around on the ceiling, with Ripper alternately barking at Vernon and cowering away from Harry.

As Harry tried to stumble away, he tripped, and sprawled over the floor. A few pounding footsteps later, and he felt a burning blow to his side. Uncle Vernon had kicked him. An absurd, disbelieving part of Harry weakly giggled that his uncle had kicked him while he was down – trust Vernon to stick with truisms and cliches. That part of his mind was quickly chased away by another kick to his stomach. Harry curled his legs in front of him and brought his arms up to cover his head, and Vernon continued his vicious assault, his foot making crushing contact with his back, his legs, his arms.

There was a gasp from the doorway, and Harry dimly heard Aunt Petunia shriek “Vernon!”

Uncle Vernon paused, and Harry glanced up between a gap in his arms. His aunt was standing in the doorframe, looking uncertainly between her husband and her nephew.

Uncle Vernon was purple-faced and panting from his exertions. “What is it Petunia? The freak has gone far enough! First with the letters and then with the owls – now he's gone after Marge!”

Aunt Petunia's eyes snapped up from where she'd been staring at Harry with a sick expression. “Yes, the boy has gone far enough, but do something about your sister first! She's floating around the living room now, what if the neighbours see?” she hissed.

Uncle Vernon paled and rushed across the room, before turning to Harry. “I'm not finished with you, freak. I'll see to Marge, and then you have a lot to answer for.”

Harry groaned and tried to move. His body ached all over, but non of his limbs seemed to be broken. Aunt Petunia hesitated in following her husband. She turned to her nephew, and saw her sister's green eyes ringed with purpled skin.

“Get out of here. Go, somewhere – I don't care where. He'll not let you live here any longer.” She sniffed, and went out to the hallway, where he heard her unlock the cupboard door. She then made her way into the living room, where Vernon was exclaiming over a presumably still-floating Aunt Marge.

Harry cursed in quiet hisses, and got up, the urgency, the need to escape superseding the considerably pain he was experiencing. He had read between the lines of what Aunt Petunia had said, and he agreed. His uncle wouldn't let him live at Privett Drive any longer. He was certainly going to kill Harry, so Harry quite understandably didn't want to stick around for that.

He dragged his trunk out of the cupboard and left it by the door, then silently made his way upstairs. He wasn't sure why the ministry hadn't arrived to expel him for his blatant use of magic on a muggle, but he wasn't taking any chances; he needed to get out, fast. He made it to his room, and grabbed his things from the loose floorboard and stuffed some things lying around in his pillowcase. With that slung over his shoulder, he passed by Marge's room and he glanced at it. Dudley sounded like he was watching the tellie in his room, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were still shouting about Marge. Deciding quickly, Harry stole into Marge's room, and quickly located her purse. He found around five-hundred pounds in bills – he remembered that she mentioned hating banks, and never went to them if she could help it. Stuffing the money in his pocket, he limped downstairs, and flung the pillowcase into his trunk.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, and making sure that his Aunt and Uncle weren't coming, also raided his uncle's wallet. It had two-hundred pounds in bills, but Harry made sure to grab some coins as well. He quietly opened the door, and crept out onto the street, dragging his trunk behind him and grasping Hedwig's empty cage in one hand.

As he made his way down the street, he knew that he had to avoid the wizarding world. The worst case scenario was that he would be caught and expelled for his underage magic. Harry couldn't bear the thought of not being able to go back to Hogwarts. He wasn't happy with how things were run, but it was way better than living with the Dursleys! That was another option, almost as bad as being expelled. If by some chance he wasn't expelled and they caught him, Dumbledore would almost certainly make him go back to his relatives'. For his own protection, of course, never minding that Uncle Vernon would most likely murder him the minute he walked inside.

Sighing, Harry made his way towards the nearest station. He'd go to London, but he'd stick to the muggle part of it. He may get a few funny looks because of the trunk and cage, but he could probably find somewhere to stay in the city. Seven-hundred pounds could last for a while, and if he needed to he could sneak into Gringott's.

With that tentative plan in mind, Harry promised to himself that he would keep a low magical profile, and hide in muggle London. A cold fear gripped his chest, but surely whatever he was heading towards couldn't be worse than the torture at Number 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? 
> 
> I tried to make it a bit different from canon, and made Harry use his head a bit more. Meh. Dunno.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos always appreciated ;)


	3. Streets of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to London and has a few encounters - both good and bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was a very short chapter, but I couldn't leave it as a cliffhanger, so you're welcome, people. Minor crisis averted!
> 
> This chapter has Harry being smart, assault of a minor, badass rescues, and overpriced cab fares, because I don't know how much cabs are in England and I can't be bothered to research. Someone told me the amount I'll be posting, but I really don't know. Sorry, nitpickers. If it's too much just pretend that the cabbie is greedy or something.
> 
> Also, and geography mentioned is based off of google maps and the quick glance-over I gave it. Inaccuracies most likely abound.
> 
> Warnings: Assault, rescues....etc. Multiple POVs
> 
> Disclaimers: I own nothing! NOTHINGGGG!!! 
> 
> Please Enjoy ^_^

Chapter 3 - Streets of London

Dragging his trunk towards the station, Harry was already exhausted. The long summer day had ended while dinner was being eaten at Number 4, and Harry made his way down the dimly lit street panting heavily. His mind was racing through the misty haze of tiredness; what would he do now? Where would he go? How would he get there? The questions whirled around his mind, and he pushed the less immediate concerns away (bollockscrapshiittt am I expelled? Where's the Ministry? Ohgodohgodohgod) and focused on what he was doing at that moment.

He wanted to get to London. Magical travel was out – while flying his broomstick into the city would have been fun at any other time, he was far too worn out to manage at the moment. So, it was muggle transport he would take. He weighed the pros and cons of different modes in his mind as he stumbled along.

He could take a train – the station wasn't all that far, and there was probably a direct line to London. However, Harry was carrying a rather bulky trunk and a large empty cage (which he was seriously considering ditching), which would draw attention on an evening train to the city. Harry would rather not draw attention to himself; he probably looked very roughed up, and the last thing he needed was a concerned muggle calling the police.

Buses were out for much the same reasons that trains were, so Harry was left with one viable option. He'd have to call a cab. Being in an enclosed space with a stranger was not high on Harry's to-do list, and it was always possible the cabbie could get suspicious and report him. Harry thought if he made up a good enough lie he could get away with it. It would also make up for his lack of knowledge concerning the train system – he'd really only taken the train when Hagrid had come for him on his 11th birthday. But cabs were simple; you just hail one, tell the driver where you want to go, and pay your fare at the end.

Satisfied with his decision, Harry thought about where he could find or call a cab. There was a small shopping centre a few blocks over. It wasn't large enough to bring down the property values of the monotonous suburb, but it had a small grocery, a few restaurants, and a pub. Aunt Petunia had always sniffed at the establishment when they passed by, Harry carrying the grocery bags and Dudley slurping on an ice cream treat, but it was rather charming. Harry knew that cabs would hover around the area, ready to take home the hard-working men when the barman decided they had had one too many.

He finally made it to the well-lit street and slipped over to the few cabs that were beginning to hover in the area. Making sure that his arms and face were as covered as possible, Harry walked with as confident a gait as he could manage given the circumstances. Injuries, exhaustion, and an insecure childhood were more than likely a factor in the halting steps he made as he approached the cab. Taking a deep breath, Harry knocked on the passenger window and opened the door.

“Excuse me, sir, but how much to get to London?”

The cabbie looked shocked for a moment, and stared at the young child warily before saying, “fifty quid, kid, why ya askin'?”

Harry gave a frustrated sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. He looks at the cabbie with a small smile and says, “I was supposed to stay the week with my older cousin, and we've been having an OK time, but this evening this crazy bint shows up crying about how sorry she is and stuff. He gave me some money and told me I was to catch a cab back to mum and dad's – doesn't want me on a train this late, I guess.” Harry span his tale with just the right amount of exasperation and humour to defuse the potentially volatile situation of a child needing transport at such a time.

The cabbie chuckled and muttered something about relating to having crazy ex-girlfriends before he got out of the cab and helped Harry with his trunk. Harry got into the cab and they started the hour-long journey to the nation's capital.

After about forty minutes they were entering the outskirts of the city, and Harry was just coming out of a light, much needed doze. They cabbie, whose name Harry had discovered to be Bill, turned his head and asked Harry, “So whereabouts are your folks, then?”

Harry looked blankly at him, mind racing with a possible destination. Where in the world, well, in London, should he go? Mentally cursing himself, he blurted out the first place he could think of.

“Regent's Park!” Harry said. When Bill raised an eyebrow towards him, Harry quickly elaborated, “I was staying with my cousin because mum and dad were having a weekend out by Regent's Park. If you can get me there, I'll be able to find where they're at – I just don't remember the address.” Harry shrugged sheepishly, and Bill looked satisfied.

“No worries, lad, we'll get you there eventually,” with a quick grin in the rear-view mirror, Bill once again focused on the road, while Harry alternated between staring out the window and watching his fare slowly edge its way higher and higher.

The crush of buildings suddenly diminished and Harry found himself looking into a green expanse in the middle of the city.

“Regents Park,” Bill stated. “Now, whereabouts did we need to go?”

Harry was in a state of mild panic. Why hadn't he just taken the subway? Sure, there would have been more people to see him, but they wouldn't have such a vested interest in where he was going. Muggle, muggle... what's believable? Harry thought frantically.

With a reluctant glance towards the man, Harry said, “Sorry, I don't recognize any of the hotels – could you drop me off at the University?” There was a University around here, right? “My dad works with them sometimes, I can give him a ring from the night office and they'll pick me up.”

Harry said all of this as assertively as he could, but he was getting rather tired of spinning tales. He hadn't had to hold a deception for this long since grade school, when he had to play along with what Aunt Petunia told the teachers. And even then, it wasn't him concocting the story, but his Aunt. 

Still, the cabbie was accepting enough, and seemed to want to get this fare over with so he could work his way back to an easy ride with a pub-goer. He pulled up to the gates and stopped in front of an office -like building. 

“Here, lad, fare's fifty quid, I'll cover the extra,” Bill said with a wink, and Harry felt a brief rush of gratitude toward the man. He reached into his pocked and counted out Marge's money, handing it over to Bill. Bill then got out of the cab and helped Harry with his trunk, while Harry thanked him profusely. Keeping a beaming smile on his face while Bill drove off, Harry started walking towards the building. Once he was sure the cab was out of sight, he stopped, and sagged in relief. 

He looked around the street cautiously. Where to go now? He was down a hundred pounds, and no decent hotels would accept a thirteen-year-old requesting a room. No, they'd inform the police and he'd be sent to the Dursley's or to a social care centre. So not happening. Harry slipped into a morose pondering of options, wondering at the chill in the air. He could survive this night, he was pretty sure, but he had to avoid the law enforcement.

No, Harry needed to remain away from authority figures, so he set down off the street, looking for a likely place to stay. The area he was in didn't seem to cater to homeless people – while not overly high-class, someone would still notice a child curled up in a doorway. Unless...

Harry had the invisibility cloak. What was stopping him from storing his trunk in some back alley and sleeping wrapped in his cloak? For one night, it just might work. He could work on more permanent accommodations the next day, when his brain could actually function.

Harry slipped into a side-alley that boasted a few trash cans and was dappled by a rusty fire-escape and scoped out a likely spot. He didn't notice the pale eyes following his every move.

Propping his trunk in a corner, Harry swiftly opened it and pulled out an extra jumper, his winter cloak, and started rooting around for his invisibility cloak. He didn't hear the shuffling footsteps behind him until too late.

**

Eddie had been having an off day. He worked in grounds maintenance, and summer seemed to give people the impression that they were entitled to trash his territory. Bloody rich blighters, with their pretty wives and poncy children. Capering about on the pond or playing swotty games like tennis or croquet. He couldn't stand them. He had absolutely no desire to return home to his disgusting wife and squalling brats – brats who he wasn't even allowed to discipline according to some upstart sociology major that had the flat across from them. 

No, he didn't want to go back to that just yet – he needed a buffer. He needed a bloody drink.

Hours later, but still rather early by regular standards, he staggered out of the pub. The barkeep had looked at his clothes and assessed the mean look in his eye and demanded his tab be paid before kicking him out. He was a bit of a nasty drunk. As Eddie staggered down the street, he saw a small shadow slip into a darkened alley. With a shuffling gait, he made his way purposefully over to the entrance and peered into the gloom.

What he saw, he definitely liked. A small boy, his back to him, was bent over an opened trunk. He had a slim waist and petite bone structure underneath the tatty clothes he was sporting. His hair was rather dishevelled, just touching the back of his slender neck in places. He wasn't bad looking. And he was all alone.

He made his way over to the mysterious boy, who didn't hear him until he was a foot away. Startled, he turned swiftly and locked his gaze fearfully with Eddie's. Glowing green eyes, full of a delicious terror and weariness blazed out behind a pair of shabby glasses. Utterly entranced by those eyes, Eddie reached forward to roughly grab the boy. With only a feeble squeak from said child, Eddie had him successfully pinned against the wall of the building. The boy seemed to be utterly petrified, and simply shook as Eddie caressed his face with one hand, before roughly pawing at his baggy trousers with the other.

The boy finally realized what was going on, and tried to lash out, to get away from Eddie, but he was tired and it showed. As the boy gave a dry sob, Eddie managed to unbutton the fastenings, and leered at the boy, displaying crooked, yellowing teeth. Stressful days would be wiped away, Eddie thought, as he violently turned the boy around. 

He was just pinning the delicate wrists above the boy's head when he heard the most heart-stopping, guttural growl coming from the mouth of the alley.

**

Sirius sighed as he made his way down the darkened streets of Muggle London. He was absolutely exhausted – having escaped from Azkaban and swimming all the way to shore in dog form, he was rather more than emaciated. He still suffered from tremors due to over-exposure, both to the Dementors and the elements.

Sirius knew that he had to make his move on the rat, and he also wanted to check on Harry, but first he needed information. He had one newspaper showing that the rat was alive and living with a wizarding family, but he should be in Egypt for the next few weeks. Sirius could only hope that the rat was too much of a coward to escape into the desert. No, he was sure that the rat would return with his keepers to England, and Sirius would be able to hunt him down.

So it was that a large black dog was seen roaming the streets of London. It had avoided the Leaky Cauldron so far, instead scrounging for food and resting where it could. A very kind older lady who seemed to live near a rather charming deli had fed him until he almost burst. He had wagged his tail and given her a doggy-grin, before making his way to the nearby park where he had hoped to catch up on some much-needed rest.

Now that darkness had fallen, Padfoot made his way out of the lush grounds of Regent's Park, and gloried in the sensation of being free. Twelve years of his life had been wasted on a stupid mistake, and he was not going to screw things up this time. He had acted out of grief and fury when Hagrid had insisted on taking Harry, and look where that had gotten him! No, Sirius needed to plan this out, and make up for where he had failed his godson. He still wanted to kill the rat, but Pettigrew would be far more useful as evidence in his yet-to-have-taken-place trial. Padfoot growled. Let the rat live for now, squeeze everything you can from it, make sure Harry is safe – then eviscerate the traitor.

As a general plan, Sirius liked it.

Padfoot looked around and noticed he was in the general vicinity of the old biddy that fed him this morning. He speculated that he could probably get a few more meals out of her before he moved on; he needed to build up his strength for the slog up to Scotland.

As he padded his way down the paved streets, he saw a shadow slip into a darkened alley. Curious, Padfoot followed silently, and snuck his head around the corner, sniffing delicately.

A horrible wash of terror and angry lust assaulted his powerful sense of smell. Peering into the darkness, steely grey eyes widened at what he saw: a dishevelled, drunken slob of a man had a small boy pinned to the grimy wall. The boy was quaking in silent terror; fear radiated from his small body as the monster pawed at his baggy trousers.

A fierce wave of protectiveness stormed within Sirius. How could someone do that to a child? It was bastards like this that made Sirius think maybe Azkaban had something going for it. Child-molesters definitely deserved a place in that hell hole.

With a horrible growl, Padfoot sprang towards the pair. The man looked up just in time to see a humongous black shape with slavering jaws and cold eyes bear down on him. His back slammed onto the dirty ground, and in his shock he released the young child. Padfoot now had the bastard firmly pinned, and was contemplating the pros and cons of ripping the bastard's throat out right there. The sod was gibbering in terror, and Padfoot's sharp nose detected the sour scent of the man pissing himself in fear. Disgusted, Sirius decided he had no desire to have any part of that man in contact with his mouth, even if it was to rip out his throat. He carefully stepped on bastard's windpipe, applying pressure with his large paw until the man passed out. Satisfied, Padfoot stepped back.

A soft whimper registered in his hearing, and he turned towards the child, cursing. He had done it again! Focusing more on the criminal than the injured child. The parallels to his failure with Harry hit him hard, and he made a mental note to get a hold on his emotions. If he was reacting like this as a dog, how in the world would he cope as a human? He should probably get help when he was no longer in danger of being arrested. He made to comfort the terrified boy, and found him oddly composed, if breathing a bit unsteadily.

As the boy looked up, gratitude shining in his eyes, Sirius received one of the largest, most heart-stopping shocks of his life. There was James – a thin, bruised James peering up at him with Lily's soulful green eyes. 

What in the world was Harry doing here? In London? In Muggle London? At night-time? Why was he bruised and being sexually assaulted by drunk muggles? Padfoot whined as the questions and possibilities raced through his mind. 

Sirius was almost positive that Harry wasn't staying with Remus. He didn't have the werewolf's scent on him at all – there was nothing that signified Harry had been in contact with the over-protective wolf. Then who was he staying with? The clothes he wore reeked of muggle design – and they were horrible rags, at that! Sirius was well aware that Azkaban had stolen most of his looks, but given the choice he would be dressed far better than Harry was! There was a faint smell of alcohol and a stale scent he had trouble placing until he remembered Lily's shrew of a sister. What in the world was Dumbledore thinking placing Harry with her? Taking in the hastily-packed trunk and numerous bruises, Sirius came to a startling conclusion: Harry was a runaway.

A deep pain settled into his heart. Sirius knew what it was like to have to flee one's family – for he assumed that is was Lily's stupid relatives that had gotten him into this state. Bloody prejudiced gits. For Harry to have to resort to this at thirteen, with no one to run to was heartbreaking. Did he have no friends to take him in? Sirius had gone to James' when he was blasted out of the Black's home, so why was Harry here? 

He moved slowly forward and nosed Harry's hand. With a little laugh, the boy tentatively rubbed Padfoot's large black head.

“Thanks, boy” the young Potter whispered. “That was really great of you.”

He suddenly wrapped his arms around the large dog's neck and sighed. It was a tremulous, shaky little sigh, and Sirius felt his heart bleeding at the sense of loneliness it conveyed.

“I can't believe it, this night just isn't for me,” Harry said with a weak chuckle. Padfoot cocked his head inquiringly, and the boy continued. “First with blowing up Aunt Marge, and the Ministry probably out to get me, and now I've been – I've been -”

Here Harry glanced fearfully at the unconscious muggle. Sirius made a snap decision as things began to fall into place. Harry needed help, and he didn't think he could get it from the magical world. While Sirius knew that blowing up a muggle would get you a warning from the Ministry, Harry seemed to want to avoid the magicals, and Sirius was more than willing to go along with that, so Padfoot nudged the boy and went to collect the empty cage. With a whine, he pawed the still open trunk, and Harry finally got the hint and went to collect it. Sirius stood between Harry and the muggle the entire time, and they beat a hasty retreat out of the alley.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked softly. “I have some muggle money, but no one will take in a kid – they'll turn me right over!” He rested his hand on Padfoot's back while he dragged his trunk, looking about him in a lost manner. Padfoot gave a muffled 'yip' through his mouthful of cage, and made his way down the street towards the nice lady's door. She was a kind-enough soul, and Sirius was almost positive she was a feed-first ask questions later kind of woman. She fussed, and she didn't discriminate. Just what Harry needed.

The almost-teenager seemed content enough to follow a great bloody dog down the unfamiliar city streets, and looked up in bemused surprise when they stopped on the doorstep of a building that said 221 on it. There was a light on in an upstairs window, and Padfoot hurriedly scratched at the door, making pitiful whining sounds.

A shadow crossed the window, unseen to the pair on the stoop, and lingered there for a few moments, taking in the odd sight of a boy and a dog on the doorstep. The shadow moved away.

Padfoot's ears perked forwards as he heard distant footsteps coming down the stairs. But wait! Those were heavy steps, not the steps of an older lady! Dubious, he glanced back at Harry, before deciding that whoever the lady had in her house was probably a good person. Of course, he didn't know that her ex-husband had been executed for his crimes over the pond... but that was besides the point.

The door slowly opened, and Sirius witnessed the meeting of Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. The two brunettes gazes – one icy blue and the other vivid green – met over the scruffy beast of a dog. Little did that dog know the effect this meeting would have on his and Harry's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! So what do you think? Sirius to the rescue!
> 
> Sorry if you don't like child molesterness in fics, but I tried to keep a level of horrified-ness without going overboard. Harry has Potter Luck - he gets into bad situations, then gets out of them by the skin of his teeth. Or Sirius's, as the case may be.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, I try to get the characters believable, so feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. A Cure for Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sherlock Holmes - the World's only Consulting Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, no excuses really. Real life and all that jazz.
> 
> See earlier chapters for disclaimers...
> 
> No real warnings.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Chapter 4

Sherlock was bored.

There were no cases at the moment – everyone, even criminals, seemed to want to go along with the concept of Summer Vacation. Absolutely nothing was happening that was of any interest, and Sherlock thought he might just die if nothing interesting happened soon.

He didn't even have his pet distractions! John and Mrs. Hudson had cruelly ganged up on him and cleared the majority of his experiments from the kitchen, railing on about 'sanitation' and 'health codes' and such. Like Sherlock cared. That was weeks of observation and dubiously-acquired material gone to waste! 

Lestrade was bungling along in his investigations, so far managing to stay on track. By on track, Sherlock of course meant that he was moving vaguely in the direction of the obvious conclusion to his cases, and though it would be slow-going for the incompetent force, they would reach their objective – eventually. So Sherlock couldn't be bothered to go and give them whatever nudge they needed to find their answers; the criminals had left a trail so obvious Sherlock had given the case a surreptitious glance and groaned in despair at the stupidity of mankind. 

Brother Mycroft was being blessedly silent. Sherlock absolutely abhorred his brother's interference in his life, but sparring with him did alleviate the boredom that came with existence, if only barely. It had always been so; Sherlock and Mycroft attempting to out-genius the other, while mummy looked on at her precocious boys. It was getting old – old! And Sherlock wanted something new. But alas, there was nothing new. Everything has already been done before, and only minor variations can be made to any course of action.

For a while, Dr. John Watson was new. The ex-military surgeon was refreshing in that he appreciated Sherlock's deductions and did not immediately label him a freak. Sherlock appreciated that greatly, even if the sentimental fool ignored the beautiful science of his actions and instead romanticized the cases into a bloody story. He was the oddest man. Sherlock thought that they got on very well, better than most, but that wasn't really saying much. 

For instance, John had left rather abruptly earlier this evening for some reason Sherlock was certain had to do with him. Why John took being called an idiot so personally was beyond him; a statement of fact was nothing to get upset over, and relative to Sherlock, almost everyone was an idiot. So there was no reason for John to go flouncing off to Sarah's just so he could sleep on her too-small couch that would give him horrible pains in his neck that he would be rubbing for the next two and a half days which would further irritate his injured shoulder due to the increased motion - 

Sherlock let out an impatient breath. Not a sigh. Was it possible to become even more bored than this? He cursed John for hiding his nicotine patches (he could, of course, find them with ease, but he suspected that John had just taken them and pretended to hide them before binning them. Prat.)

As Sherlock mused about the unfairness and staleness of existence, and of the irritating, self-righteous ways of doctors, his sharp hearing picked up a scratching at the door.

He moved towards the window, and the scratching continued with a muffled whine. Mrs. Hudson certainly would not hear the animal (large canine, probably in ill-health) at the door, and Sherlock silently cursed his landlady for her obsession with feeding every pathetic thing she came across. She had most likely fed the mutt earlier today and it had returned, seeking shelter from the cruel streets of London.

Glancing out the window, Sherlock's eyes glinted as he took in a peculiar sight. He saw a ruffled, messy black head of hair standing beside an absolutely monstrous black hound. The hair belonged to a small boy (pre-teen, evidence of malnourishment in delicate wrists and hollow cheeks; evidence of assault in facial bruises and rumpled clothes) who was clutching a rather bulky and awkward trunk. The dog, which looked to be ridiculously scruffy and even more malnourished than the boy, was still scratching at the door, an empty metal cage resting beside it.

Sherlock considered the pair, as he moved towards the stairs. He could contact Lestrade and let the police deal with what was obviously a case of assault on a minor, along with a case of a runaway, but as mentioned before, Sherlock was bored. He decided to reserve judgement until her could observe the pair and see what their tale was. He couldn't believe he was reduced to picking up waifs off the street to keep his mind occupied, but such was the life of a sociopathic genius, he supposed.

Sherlock opened the door, and light flooded out of the hallway to illuminate a bruised face framed with untidy black hair and covered in bruises. Sherlock's gaze locked onto twin pools of emerald green covered by ratty glasses, and took in the sight of the boy.

As observed upstairs, the boy had flyaway black hair, and was sporting an almost alarming amount of facial bruises. The varied colouration of the bruises suggested that whoever had assaulted the boy had done so over an extended period of time, as long ago as a week, and as recently as tonight. Moving on to the eyes, Sherlock detected the salty residue of tears and slightly irritated flesh, indicated that the boy had been crying recently. 

Eyes roving over the rest of the boy, Sherlock compiled a list of afflictions: hand-markings on the throat and wrists that resulted in bruising, paleness and tightness of skin indicative of malnourishment, wariness of posture that suggested a history and expectation of abuse, tenseness of the jaw and shoulders that told of continued and unalleviated pain (most likely in the upper torso), shoddily done up and slightly torn trousers, showing dirt that could be found in alleys near to here, indicating that the boy had been – Sherlock's eyes widened in slight horror. Obviously the boy had not been raped, but it had been a close thing. Many thought Sherlock to be absolutely heartless, but even he, who delighted in the thrill of chasing down and deducing a killer from the angle at which he decapitated his victims, could not stand the assault of a child.

A slight whine closer to him drew his attention. Ah, yes. The dog. It was massive and black and shaggy – of an indeterminate breed (though if he had to guess he would suggest some sort of cross between a Newfoundland and an Irish Wolfhound) and positively emaciated. It's fur was matted and dull, but its steely grey eyes were bright and almost pleading. 

They made quite a pair, Sherlock mused, the boy and his dog. The boy was almost certainly a runaway, judging by his ... trunk?

Sherlock paused. His interest flickered. His brain, moving at speeds that would make a legilimens dizzy, realized that with the trunk, his night of boredom had come to an end. There was only one thing to do.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, pinning a smile that John called mildly unsettling onto his face. The boy started at being addressed, and glanced at the tense dog, as if waiting for a cue. Sherlock noted this behaviour and continued, “I assume you are in need of assistance? Come up and I will see what can be done.”

He turned abruptly and led the way into the hallway and started up the stairs. After only a slight hesitation, he heard the quiet steps of the dog, and the slight rattle of the cage as it was picked up (by the dog?). He then heard the drag of the trunk, and turned back to look at the boy and the dog who had made their way into the foyer.

“Close the door, if you wouldn't mind. Do you need help with the trunk?” Sherlock asked, desperate to get his hands on it, but cautious enough to know the boy needed the security of his possessions. The boy looked exhausted as he closed the door, but he shook his head and shifted his grip on his luggage determinedly.

Sherlock gave a curt nod and made his way into 221 B, clearing some books and papers from the sofa and graciously offering it to the boy, who sat down with a small sigh and a wary glance around him. Sherlock saw him take in the books, the skull, the violin, before his gaze flitted to Sherlock, pinning him and studying his face and posture minutely, before glazing over into a blank, innocent expression.

How fascinating.

The boy was obviously very observant – how much, he did not know – but he had the right idea. He was also practiced with lying, and could do it rather well. His face gave little away, and the boy was extremely tired! Sherlock sat in a winged armchair and steepled his fingers, facing the boy. The dog sniffed the air, nudged the boy's foot slightly, then settled at his feet. The boy looked down bemusedly before shifting his gaze back to Sherlock, tilting his head so that he was looking through his fringe.

“My name,” Sherlock began, “is Sherlock Holmes. I can see that you are a runaway in a bad position, who has suffered at the hands of your caretakers. The residue on your trainers indicates that you are from the Surrey area, and I believe I am correct in saying that you wish to avoid the police.”

At his words, the boy's head snapped up, eyes widening slightly in shock, and the dog whined, shifting anxiously. How curious – it was most likely in reaction to the boy, but to Sherlock it seemed as if the dog was reacting to his stated deductions. Interesting. As the boy had jerked his head up, his hair shifted, and Sherlock saw a curious and poorly-healed scar in the shape of a bolt of lightning. What in the world could cause that? Sherlock wondered. It was most certainly curious, and would have to be looked into. The boy saw him gazing at his forehead, and it seemed as if he was horrified at first, but after a searching emerald look, the boy calmed, obviously reassured by whatever Sherlock had done. Had he expected him to recognize the scar? Sherlock supposed it was quite distinctive. Cataloguing that thought elsewhere for the moment, Sherlock continued.

“May I ask your name, and details as to how you have come to be here? I will not turn you over to the police,” Sherlock said dryly, noticing the tense and nervous attitude the boy had adopted at the questions.

After a short pause, the boy said in a quiet voice, “I'm ...Harry. And you're right – I ran away.” He shifted on the couch. “I appreciate this, really. You not telling. They'll ... they'd probably send me back, if they found me. Uncle Ve – well, he'd kill me if I went back.” This last was said resignedly, but it had the ring of truth. The boy yawned, obviously exhausted, the adrenaline of his undoubtedly action-packed evening leaving him. His eyes darkened as his lids drooped.

Making a decision, Sherlock said, “Well, Harry, enough questions for now. You may sleep there tonight – and your dog on the rug, if you please.” Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, where his slaughtered experiments lay among some boxes of biscuits and random fruits that John had most likely picked up somewhere. Shifting some biscuits onto a mostly-clean plate, Sherlock filled a glass of water and brought it out to Harry. He placed the scanty rations on the low coffee table and said,

“This should last you until morning. I don't doubt that Mrs. Hudson will delight in feeding the both of you, but I've not had occasion to shop recently.”

Harry took a biscuit and passed it to the dog, which practically inhaled the treat. He then took one for himself and nibbled at it, before saying, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, sir. I have money if -”

Sherlock waved the thought away impatiently. 

“Money is nothing to me. Sleep, and your wounds will be tended in the morning. My flat-mate is a doctor; he'll be back by then. I shall remain here,” he sat down in the armchair, “and finish my book, if you don't mind the light.” Harry nodded and laid down, covering himself with the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He reached down and patted the dog's head, before his eyes fluttered and he fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.

Sherlock waited five minutes. He glanced at the dog over his book. The dog was watching him. Sherlock waited another ten minutes. Looking up, he saw that the dog was still watching him. He wondered if he should give the massive mutt a sedative, but then he reminded himself that it was only a dog – it wouldn't care about what he does. 

So Sherlock got up, and made his way towards the boy's – Harry's – trunk. It was fascinating – a normal runaway would pack a backpack, or a suitcase at the largest. Something easy to carry, that would hold the worldly goods they thought they would require. A trunk is something so counter-intuitive to running away that it must have some special significance. Which begged the question: What was in the trunk? Sherlock wanted to know.

As he made to open it, a dark blur moved in the corner of his sight. Suddenly, large yellow teeth encased in a black snout were being shoved in his face. He blinked. The dog had positioned himself between Sherlock and the trunk. Sherlock huffed. It had obviously been trained to protect the boy's possessions. Well, the trunk could wait. He was sure to get an answer eventually.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, and contemplated the dog. The dog stared a Sherlock for a time, before lying down right in front of the trunk. It had positioned itself so that if could easily meet Sherlock's eyes. Blue met grey in a battle of wills, a battle which lasted through the night and well into the early hours of morning. The green eyes in the room remained obscured by purpled lids, as Harry slept, his starved frame being devoured by the large, comfortable couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? What do you think? Any kudos or comments are welcome!
> 
> I hope I got Sherlock's thought process alright - he's such an intimidating character to write :/
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> DarkPhoenix


	5. Enter - The Doctor.... Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home anticipating whatever Sherlock has done this time, but he certainly wasn't expecting this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I'll post a few more chapters in the next few days - thank you for being patient!
> 
> General disclaimers - see the first few chapters :)
> 
> Thanks for reading - hope you enjoy!

Chapter 5

Harry was floating – his body ached, but it was cradled by soft, soft cushions that most certainly were not his thin mattress at the Dursley's. So, where in the world was he? Without opening his eyes, Harry tried to remember the previous night.

Ah. Aunt Marge – Uncle Vernon – blowing up of said aunt – beating from said uncle – petty theft – catching of a taxi – going into the alley - 

Ah. 

Harry suppressed a shudder. That had been absolutely horrifying. Never in his life had he felt so helpless and unclean. At his relatives' house, the worst they ever did was cuff him over the head or swing a frying pan. Yesterday... well, yesterday they had been severely pushed to the absolute edge of what little magical tolerance they had. Didn't make Vernon right for beating the crap out of him, but it wasn't like it was a routine thing. Harry decided that he was way to cavalier about being, essentially, abused and he just knew it would come back to bite him in the ass someday.

It was just that it was difficult to take his issues in the muggle world too seriously when one had teachers that attempted to kill him or dirty great snakes being let loose by a shade of the Dark Lord. But at Hogwarts, in magical crises, Harry had been fighting for his life. He knew what he was getting into, and he considered it worth the risk, if he were able to complete his objective. It was brash, it was arguably stupid, but it made sense to him at the time.

Last night... last night made no sense. It was embarrassing. It was disgusting. It had caught him completely off-guard, and he had not been able to do anything to stop it. That muggle man had completely overpowered him, and he had felt utterly helpless. Not even when he was dying from Basilisk venom had Harry been as terrified as when that bastard had successfully pawed open his pants.

Harry shuddered mentally. Thank whatever wizard God we swear to for that dog, he thought. Out of absolutely nowhere, a great shaggy black saviour had swooped down and saved him. It was like that muggle superhero Batman that Dudders liked reading about. Except it was not a man. Or bat-like. It was a dog. Oh dear, he was rambling in his own head. Not a good sign.

The dog seemed surprisingly intelligent. Its grey eyes seemed so concerned and protective, and it had guided Harry away from that alley and led him to this place. Wherever this was. The home of Mr.... Harry grinned. Right. The home of Mr. Holmes. Easy enough to remember.

If the dog was odd, the man was doubly so. He had invited both Harry and the dog in with no questions at all. Harry was in a slight daze at the time – he had tentatively self-diagnosed it as shock – so he had only paused to let the dog see if it was alright. For some reason, he trusted the dog's judgement. Or senses. Can dogs have judgement? Whatever.

Somehow, the man had been able to find out things about Harry, disturbingly accurate facts that made Harry think at first that his host was a wizard. He saw the man's gaze fix on his scar with nothing more than curiosity, however, so it was most likely that he was a muggle. 

Harry had been too exhausted last night to talk much, and the man had, in a detached sort of way, been kind enough to offer up his (very comfortable) sofa for Harry to sleep on. He supposed he would have to get up soon – he had to figure out where he would go now. He absolutely could not end up on the street again. 

Overcome by a mild anxiety, Harry almost missed the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps on the stairs revealed that someone was approaching the suite – Harry decided to 'sleep' a little longer. He heard the door open and there was a long silence. After some time, during which Harry strived valiantly not to squirm, a mellow voice made its way into the room.

“Sherlock ...”

O_o

John Watson sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a normal life. A few months ago, he had been convinced that his life couldn't get any more messed up. He had an alcoholic sister, who had recently ended her relationship with her partner. His parents were dead. He had horrible luck with women. He was a war veteran who was forced to see a shrink. He had assumed he was extremely abnormal.

Normality was redefined when he moved in with the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, John was plunged into a world of murder investigations and absolutely, depressingly brilliant thought processes. He kept company with a self-defined sociopath and a human skull. His refrigerator housed severed digits and disturbing experiments. His blog had more about his flatmate and their adventures than himself.

Living with Sherlock was extremely surreal. He was so much more that other people – he was a genius for minutiae and deductive reasoning. That being said, he was absolutely incompetent when it came to the most basic of societal cues. He was forever dismissive and condescending, exhibiting one faux pas after the other with a casual indifference, leaving John to sort out the mess he left. 

He was selfish, sloppy, lazy and driven by alarming degrees, knowledgeable and ignorant ... he was a walking contradiction, and John was quite overwhelmed at times.

Such as last night. He knew that Sherlock was not malicious in his statements (at least towards him), but being called an idiot had crossed the line on a particularly trying day. It hadn't helped that the flatmates were peeved at each other due to a 'kitchen spat'. John had quite honestly been concerned for their health if he had allowed Sherlock's dubious and at times appalling experiments to continue, so he had commissioned a willing Mrs. Hudson to purge the place. Sherlock had gotten extremely testy, and they had had what Mrs. Hudson dubbed a 'domestic'.

This further aggravated John, for he was tired of people assuming that he and Sherlock were in some kind of romantic relationship. He was certain that Sherlock could never even consider a strong emotional and physical attachment to any person, and John saw Sherlock as more of an asexual automaton with a predilection for solving crime.

So it was with extreme aggravation that John fled 221 B after Sherlock had called him an idiot for not being able to keep up with a deduction of his.

Git. He'd had to spend the night on Sarah's sofa – a fact that Sherlock would no doubt point out by using various invisible-to-John clues.

Sarah... that was another thing. His romantic life – never an extremely amazing topic – had been affected very negatively during the past few months. His interest in Sherlock's cases had lead to inattentiveness towards dates; that coupled with said dates meeting Sherlock and his cutting tongue, he was surprised his picture hadn't been posted across London as 'Undesirable Boyfriend No. 1.”

So it was that John tiredly made his way back to the flat in the early hours of the morning. Sarah had had an early shift at the clinic, and John felt uncomfortable staying at her place without her. He made his way up the stairs, and took a deep breath before entering the room.

Sherlock is probably asleep. I'll just go in, make a cup of tea, and we won't mention yesterday at all. Course of action decided, John entered the room.

He stopped as soon as the door opened, sensing something off about the scene before him. There was the coffee table, with a plate of biscuits. There was Sherlock, motionless in his armchair, gazing unblinkingly at ... a dog. A great beast of a dog that was sprawled in front of a trunk that definitely hadn't been there last night. John blinked.

His eyes flitted to the couch, and they widened. There was a small boy curled up under a blanket, sleeping. He was older than ten, but couldn't be older than thirteen, and his shock of black hair was sticking up in every direction. Trying to piece together everything in his mind, he turned to Sherlock.

Hesitantly, almost fearing the answer, (for why would Sherlock bring a child up here? He never gave any indication of even tolerating children! Was it a relative? A case? An ..) John asked, 

“Sherlock ... please tell me this isn't another mad experiment of yours ...”

Several things happened at once. The boy's shoulders stiffened; the dog growled menacingly; and Sherlock, observing both, smirked.

Weakly, John continued, “I'm serious, Sherlock – if you're bringing kids in off the street, I'm going to have to put my foot down. It's enough you bring those mad things back from Bart's, but ...” John trailed off weakly, and he met the now open eyes of the young boy.

They were very green, he noticed immediately, and framed with dark eyelashes that matched his hair. As he continued to survey the boy's face, he grew gradually alarmed. There were signs of bruising! Instantly, his medical training took over, and he cautiously approached the lad.

Sherlock was watching, and decided to answer John's queries.

“His name is Harry, and he and the dog showed up at the door last night. He has travelled from Surrey by taxi to the Regent's Park area, and made a brief stop in a nearby alley.” Here, the boy, Harry, flinched, and the dog growled again. Continuing, Sherlock said, “he appears to have been assaulted; you can see the facial bruising, and there is also undetermined injuries to his torso and arms. Possibly cracked ribs, but likelihood of breakages is low.”

John had grown alarmed as he heard this list declared so nonchalantly. He made his way towards Harry swiftly, and the dog suddenly sprang up, looking anxious. 

“He has all of those injuries and you didn't even bother to treat him? You know first-aid, Sherlock, I know you do!” John exclaimed. The dog was acting most peculiarly, nosing Harry gently and looking (glaring?) at Sherlock by turns. Harry himself was staying quiet, watching the two men nervously. He stroked the dog's fur, seeming to calm down at the contact.

Sherlock shrugged. “I knew you'd be along this morning, and his injuries were not so severe that he couldn't wait for a qualified medical practitioner,” he said. “Harry, meet Dr. John Watson, my flatmate. John, if you please?” he asked, gesturing towards Harry. John was at first inclined to glare at Sherlock, but he saw his pale eyes survey Harry with a guarded concern, which appeased John's indignation.

John approached Harry, smiling gently. Harry assessed John with a cautious emerald gaze, and the black dog shifted his steely grey eyes from John to Sherlock suspiciously.

John cleared his throat, and said in his best bedside-manner voice, “Hello, Harry, John Watson. I share the flat with him,” nodding toward a still gently smirking Sherlock. “Please excuse his rudeness, he can't help being a bit of an idiot,” he continued, receiving an offended glance from Sherlock, a weak smile from Harry, and for some reason a snort from the dog. Only mildly put off, John said, “do you mind if I take a look at your injuries? We'll get you patched up and you can tell us about yourself.” He had meant to put Harry on his ease, but a brief look of alarm flashed across his face before he schooled his features into blank politeness.

Before John could reassure the boy, Sherlock broke in, addressing Harry. “John is a trained medical professional,” he said, “and he is very good at what he does.” John's eyebrows raised. A compliment? From Sherlock? 

Sherlock continued, “I think that you will not be wanting to alert the officials to your state, so unless you wish to be admitted to a clinic or hospital, John will care for you adequately.” He smirked at the boy, who eyes flitted between the men carefully. Slowly, Harry nodded, and Sherlock's smirk widened infinitesimally. 

Intrigued, John turned Harry to face him and started examining his bruises. They were in several stages of healing, ranging from an ugly dark purple to an off-yellow that stood out on the boy's otherwise pale skin. Frowning gently, he asked Harry to take off his shirt. After some hesitance, Harry glanced around and finally, with a deep breath he nodded and divested himself of the garment.

John hissed at seeing the patchwork of bruises on the boy's ribs and back, and the dog was growling dangerously, biting off the guttural sounds and pacing across the carpet. This boy had obviously been beaten, it didn't take Sherlock to tell him that! And if it were true, and the boy was from Surrey... John eyed the trunk, and something clicked. A runaway? Sherlock's assurances made sense, as John reflected on the boy's wary and suspicious nature so far.

John's eyes hardened as he turned to Sherlock, who was watching the scene avidly, no doubt dissecting the poor boy who was silently cringing on the sofa. With a soft voice that was tight with contained anger, John looked at Sherlock and said, “explain.”


	6. Dog Days

Sherlock explained, in the briefest and most infuriatingly succinct terms, the events of the previous evening. As always, each statement he made begged for several explanations, which John childishly refused to ask. At the end of it all, John came away with the understanding that Harry and the dog had showed up late last night, probably from Surrey (damn if he was going to ask Sherlock why he knew that), and was apparently a runaway. An injured, potentially abused runaway.

Harry had sat through the conversation with a tense and wary air, alternately stroking the dog's large head and nervously fiddling with his over-large clothing. 

John sighed and smiled tiredly at the young boy. His heart ached for what the boy had been through – Harry hadn't given any details, but the look of resigned wariness had no place on such a young face, in John's opinion. It was the eyes, he mused, those startling green eyes were shadowed with the same knowledge that John and his fellow soldiers had returned to England with. That had John baffled – what in the world had happened to the boy? Harry hadn't been exactly forthcoming, but of course Sherlock had been able to deduce several things about him.

Glancing at his more-than-slightly-insane flatmate, he saw Sherlock with a familiar look in his eyes. Sherlock had apparently found a new puzzle – the runaway Harry. John was sure that Harry was being figuratively torn apart in Sherlock's mind, and he had the small satisfaction of seeing a slight wrinkle in Sherlock's brow; evidently there was something that wouldn't add up. 

That gave him pause – what was it about this boy? He had eyes shadowed with horrors, and the great deductive mind of Sherlock was stumbling over him. Sherlock's eyes were now fixated on Harry's hand, which was stroking the beast of a dog.

Shaking his head, John addressed Harry.

“Well, enough of this serious stuff,” Harry and the dog both turned their heads to look at him. “Would you like anything to eat? What's your dog's name?”

Harry blinked slowly, and gazed down at the dog, seemingly surprised to find his fingers curled into its shaggy fur. He blushed slightly, and said in a quiet voice,

“He's not exactly my dog, Dr. Watson. He, er, found me last night. I don't know his name.” Harry shifted uncomfortably, and the dog nosed his thigh, grinning a doggy-grin.

Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and John groaned inwardly.

“But you are obviously familiar with the dog,” Sherlock stated. “It is extremely protective of you, and appears to have been trained as a guard of some sort. It also appears to be somewhat intelligent.” His piercing blue eyes never left the boy and the strange dog.

Harry looked uncomfortable, and glanced at his hands, before replying.

“I, well I don't know about the training and stuff, but he seems really nice,” the dog gave a gruff bark and licked Harry's hand, coaxing a smile from the boy. “He found be a few blocks from here last night and he -” here Harry paused, his breath hitching. He took a shaky breath and continued, “He led me here. He took the cage, and I followed him.” He resumed petting the dog, who was studying Sherlock now.

“Yes, the cage,” Sherlock said with a crisp nod towards the corner it sat in. “I see that it houses a large white bird on occasion. Where is this bird now?”

Now Harry really looked uncomfortable, John noticed. His face screwed up, and his eyes shifted between Sherlock, John and the cage. Sherlock watched with a bland smile on his face, and John wondered if he should step in. But no, Sherlock was on one of his mad tracks, and running interference would only make Sherlock do something duplicitous and possibly stressful to Harry in order to gain the information. John sometimes wondered if there was a line Sherlock wouldn't cross in order to gain knowledge, but he reflected that, short of murder, probably not. At least, John hoped Sherlock would draw some sort of line at murder...

His musings were interrupted by Harry's soft voice.

“Well ... I sort of have this pet,” he began. “She's an owl. She was out ... hunting when I ran away.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You own a domesticated snowy owl? And you let it out on a regular basis? Does it return to you?” he inquired.

Now Harry's face was scrunched up in a way that John thought would have been endearing if he wasn't so visibly upset. The great dog shifted and fixed his gaze on Sherlock, barely blinking or moving.

“Umm. I'm not sure if I'd say domesticated,” Harry said. “The groundskeeper at my school gave her to me. She likes me, so she comes back after hunting.”

John saw Sherlock's eyes light up, and he knew that another tangent of questions would begin if he didn't intervene.

“Right!” he said, “Well, Harry, we'll have to see about naming that dog then, won't we? It doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Now I'm sure you're hungry, seeing as Sherlock didn't feed you last night, so let's knock up Mrs. Hudson and see if she's got anything.” While saying this, John had started toward the kitchen before realizing that nothing edible could possibly exist in there.

Instead, he left the flat and knocked at Mrs. Hudson's door. The older lady smiled when she saw him – John was her favourite boarder. It's not that she didn't love Sherlock, it was just that the things he did affected her poor nerves tremendously. He was a most trying man! But John was such a dear – so sweet and mild-mannered, and him being a war doctor! She was quite proud of the boarders who she thought of as 'her boys', always running off on their adventures. Dear Sherlock had helped her out with that spot of bother with her late husband, and John was now always there to help her out with Sherlock. Her inner reflections were interrupted when John spoke.

“Mrs. Hudson, do you think we could get something to eat upstairs? I hate to ask, but the kitchen is .., well ...” John smiled and shrugged sheepishly.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and tutted, “What is it now, another severed head? Maybe a set of toes? The man is positively indecent with what he thinks can go in a kitchen! I'll get you something straight away, dear. Just this once you understand – I'm not your housekeeper!” 

John smiled at Mrs. Hudson's trill of denial. No matter what she said, she always fed them when they needed food. Such a sweet lady. He turned and went back to the room, where Sherlock had thankfully abandoned the interrogation for the time being and seized upon the opportunity to name the dog. Harry's eyes were wide with shock, and the dog in question was looking almost apprehensively at Sherlock, who was spouting a list of names.

“Althelney, perhaps, or maybe Milverton! Shinwell or Bartholomew would work, or Dubugue,” Sherlock – John did a double take, but retained his initial observation – Sherlock prattled on to a bemused Harry. At the last name, the dog had buried his snout in Harry's lap, and Harry clenched his fist in the fur on its head. John began to hear a pattern in the names being suggested now; they all seemed to have something to do with music or composers.

“Ludwig or Beethoven, very dignified names, both of them. I would only hope that the dog's hearing does not deteriorate at the same rate as the namesake. No? Mendelssuhn, perhaps, or Eichelburger? Not especially traditional, and if you are looking for a name that will fit on a name tag, then I understand your hesitance to use those,” John looked at Harry, and he knew that fitting either name on a dog tag was the absolute last issue he had with the suggested names.

“You might name it Chopin, then, if you are concerned with the length of the names ...” Sherlock was still going, and Harry's eyes were beginning to glaze over.

Desperately, John decided to cut in before Sherlock broke the poor boy.   
“Sherlock, maybe something more descriptive of the dog? Something more ... dog-like?”

Sherlock shot the doctor a scathing look. With a sneer, he said, “Dull. A descriptor? Are we now back to the times of 'Spot' and 'Old Yeller'? Why not just call the mutt 'Blackie' and be done with it?”

Harry had snapped out of his daze by this point, mostly aided by the dog, which had shifted and whined at Sherlock's latest nomination. John sighed as Sherlock began to wax eloquent – as if there were any other way he would deign to – on the woes of 'descriptor' names.

“Perhaps we should call it 'Shadow' to play on the mystique! Or 'Bear' to allude to its massive size? Or perhaps 'Wolf'? Or lets even make it a bit obscure and illuminate something like food-preference or agility...”

John was in awe. He had never realized that Sherlock would take something like naming a dog so seriously. Both older men were interrupted by a hesitant noise from Harry. 

“Ah, thank you for your ... suggestions,” he began. “Maybe – maybe we could give him a name that's a bit of both?” he asked with a timid look between them.

“A bit of both – what do you mean?” asked John.

“Well, we could do a fancy music name like Mr. Sherlock likes, but it can also be about how the dog is,” Harry said, warming up to his idea.

“A fancy music name?” asked Sherlock with a raised brow. “So you recognized the composers I was listing?”

Harry shrugged. “A few. Aunt – my Aunt has some classical music for smart parties,” he said, stumbling over the mention of his relatives.

John saw Sherlock debating whether or not to pursue a line of questioning on Harry's family, but he apparently decided that naming the dog took precedence for the time being. “So your thoughts on the name?” he prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Well, what about that Mozart guy? Wolfgang Ama-something, right? We could name him Wolfgang to be all official, but I'll probably just end up calling him Wolf. Neat, huh?” Harry grinned, and looked at the rather wild-looking canine. John had to admit the name fit. Sherlock was smirking, probably at the inclusion of Mozart in the naming, and the dog was yipping and frolicking around Harry, who was laughing in delight. 

“Wolfgang it is,” John said with a smile. “Now we just have to get Mrs. Hudson to -”

He was cut off by a breathless screech from the door. Turning, he saw Mrs. Hudson herself, bearing a now shaking tray of sandwiches, staring with wide eyes at the massive dog capering about her upstairs flat. He groaned inwardly, adding up all the factors going on in his mind. Sherlock wanted Harry to stay here. Harry was a most-likely abused boy, who found comfort in the dog. Mrs. Hudson seemed shocked by the dog. He wasn't sure what Mrs. Hudson's pet policy was. Mrs. Hudson had sandwiches. Harry was probably hungry. John was definitely hungry. Sherlock would be absolutely no help. John was tired.

The variables swirled in his mind as he turned to Mrs. Hudson with a winning smile.

“Why, Mrs. Hudson, you've outdone yourself! Those look divine!” he divested her of the tray and steered her towards an armchair. Distraction, he thought. Let's get her to ignore the elephant in the room. Or at least, the dog. The very large dog.

“Have you met Harry?” he asked, gesturing the the now apprehensive boy. “He turned up last night all cold and hurt, and Sherlock took him in, can you believe it? Not that he shouldn't,” he said quickly, glancing at Harry who looked instantly apologetic, “but really, Sherlock being decent? What a remarkable boy to draw that out, no?”

Mrs. Hudson looked very dazed, but, ever the impeccable hostess and mother-hen, she proffered a sandwich to Harry and insisted he eat – he was 'skin and bones, what were you doing to him, Sherlock?'

Sherlock protested that he had only just met the child last night, and could not in any way be held accountable for his present state of malnourishment, indeed, he had provided the boy with biscuits! His biscuits! At this point, the dog, newly named Wolfgang began nosing at the sandwich tray, and Harry absent-mindedly fed him half of the sandwich he held.

Mrs. Hudson's gaze focused back on the dog, and John and Sherlock stopped talking as she opened her mouth to speak. They were absolutely awed when she declared,

“Oh, there's the dear doggie I fed yesterday. Such a handsome boy you are! I had so hoped someone would take him in, but it turns out he belongs to Harry! What a marvellous thing, dearie – we'll have to get you a nice steak to celebrate. Stay as long as you like, dearie, I've another room if these boys won't share. We must get the both of you fed – you're bags of bones with black hair!” With that speech, she bustled out of the room, muttering about adorable strays and proper meals.

Sherlock grinned at John. “It would seem that the pet policy covers taking in strays,” he remarked. 

John nodded, “Well, we've picked up two, we might as well get them cleaned up. Questions and that can wait, but they both look a mess. Which one do you want?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I abhor the smell of wet dog. I will not bathe it, and it needs a bath in the most desperate way possible. No, you shall be responsible for grooming Amadeus, and I shall take charge of Harry,” he declared.

John nodded. “Right,” he said “just try not to overwhelm him. Get him cleaned up, and fed, and I'll patch him up after I'm done with – wait, what did you call Wolfgang?”

Sherlock sniffed, “Harry decided to name him after the composer Mozart – I was simply calling him by the second name, Amadeus. It's a bit more to my liking than Wolf.”

“Aren't you going to confuse the dog?” John asked with a quirked eyebrow. He and Sherlock were making their way to the bathroom to run a bath and fetch towels and the like, while Harry and Wolfgang feasted on the spoils of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

Sherlock frowned, before shaking his head. “I think that there is very little that confused that dog. It seems as though it reacts to what we are saying, not just our projected emotions, as most dogs do. I would like to know where the animal was trained; I've never heard of such an advanced program.”

John smiled, “Well, before you go off hunting dog breeders, get Harry cleaned up and into a change of clothes. If you get him settled down, maybe he'll have a nap and I can look him over. You know enough first-aid that you should be able to take care of the smaller stuff.” He glared mildly at Sherlock. He really should have taken care of it when Harry arrived but now another few minutes wouldn't make much difference. Sherlock just swept by with a towel, intent on taking Harry to Mrs. Hudson's to wash, so John turned and called out the bathroom door, “Wolfgang!” before turning back to the slowly-filling tub.

A soft thudding noise and a playful yip were all the warning he had before he was deluged with warm water, which had just been displaced by a large, dirty, and now very wet, dog.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, tell me what you think! The first few chapters are a bit rough, so I'm trying to clean them up a lot. They get progressively longer as the story goes on.
> 
> Comments and feedback are welcome! If you find anything implausible or odd, drop a line and I'll try to explain. It mostly makes sense in my head....
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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